For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth

A Lion Among Ladies Is A Most Dreadful Thing.

To Fear The Foe, Since Fear Oppresseth Strength, Gives In Your Weakness Strength Unto Your Foe.

If By Chance I Talk A Little Wild, Forgive Me; I Had It From My Father.

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?